


For Nearly All of His Life

by twitchtipthegnawer



Series: Overwatch Oneshots [12]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8370451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchtipthegnawer/pseuds/twitchtipthegnawer
Summary: There was something ugly in Hanzo's heart. Something he couldn't burn out, something that clung there with unforgiving talons no matter what he did. For so long, he thought it was harmless. If he could keep control of himself, then that ugly thing couldn't hurt anyone else, could it?But Genji's always had a way of getting under Hanzo's shields. And the things that he wanted were the hardest to resist.





	

He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t love Genji. It was there in his earliest memories, three-year-old toddling up to the edge of Genji’s crib just for a glance at his baby brother. He never had a chance to resent him for their mother’s death; there was only soft, warm love between them.

It grew in time with Genji, his cheeks that were slow to lose their softness and his eyes, golden and gleaming and more intelligent by the day. Their father said that Mother’s eyes had been the exact same shade, but Hanzo personally doubted it. No more than two eyes in the world could have been so bright.

The first time Genji walked, Hanzo felt his own face cracking into a wide, beaming smile. It was unusual even then, and he could feel the nurse staring, but he didn’t care. How could he, when Genji was laughing back, baby-high giggles sweeter than anything else?

For years, he lived in that happy haze. Hanzo and Father both doted on Genji, gave him toys and attention and always, always love. He didn’t realize he was _wrong_ until he was nearly thirteen.

They were on the beach during one of their weekend retreats, rare times when Father felt comfortable enough to leave the business with some of his subordinates. Hanzo already knew what that “business” was, in general if not in particulars, and it made him value this time all the more.

Genji was wading in the water, ten years old and already carrying the beginnings of what Hanzo knew would become lean strength. He envied it, a bit, if only because he felt awkward and bulky lately. But he admired Genji more, the way the water lapped at his milky stomach and--

Hanzo’s own stomach dropped out somewhere into the sand beneath his feet. Because it was one thing to admire the way Genji laughed, his unrestrained joy, the poise that could so quickly become teasing. It was another entirely to admire, or even _notice,_ the way Genji looked.

And just because he was young did not mean Hanzo was stupid. In that moment, he wished he was, but there was no turning back fate.

Avoiding Genji was impossible, and freezing him out hurt too much, but Hanzo could control his own eyes. And he trained himself to always look just over Genji’s shoulder, just above his head, and he _hoped._ He spent longer hours practicing his archery, longer hours studying, longer hours doing those things that would leave Genji bored and restless.

School was a boring, arduous thing, but Father insisted they both attend. Tutoring wasn’t enough, he said, despite Hanzo’s doubts on that subject too. The only upside, as far as Hanzo was concerned, was that it meant hours without having to perform the intricate dance being around Genji had turned into.

As the years passed, it got easier. Hanzo never looked much at others, if he was honest. But if he found his classmates boring and quite the opposite of tempting, then he also found Genji… less than alluring. By the time he was sixteen, he quite hoped he’d killed the fledgeling feelings in his chest before they’d gotten a chance at the sky.

But there was Genji, waiting at the school gates for Hanzo to pick him up as always. And there were Genji’s friends, as many as usual, smiles on their faces that didn’t look quite right. Genji’s smile was wrong too, brittle, and his cheeks were bright apple-red.

Tension coiled in Hanzo’s arms, his gut churning as he greeted his brother. He had a suspicion he knew what the problem was. After all, most boys confessed to girls in middle school, though Hanzo found it hard to imagine a girl rejecting his brother. But the slight humiliation on his face didn’t lie, so Hanzo made his voice extra soft.

Strangely, that only left Genji more downcast. His eyes would flick up to Hanzo’s face, then away to his friends, then back to the ground. Restless as a baby bird.

Before they even made it to the car, Genji said, “Hanzo.” It was a tone of voice that meant Hanzo would get the answers he’d wanted.

Waiting came easy, when he was waiting for Genji. Hanzo smiled, just a bit, patient as could be. Genji looked away again. “My friends said…” he swallowed hard. “They said you’re a queer. You’re not, are you?”

Those golden eyes speared Hanzo, straight through the chest. “What made them say that?” He asked, only keeping his hands loose through years of training.

Shrugging, Genji dared another glance up. “They said you’ve never had a girlfriend before. And that you probably wanna fuck me, cause I’m such a pretty boy.”

Every inch of the soft love Hanzo bore for Genji grew thorns. They were as brittle as they were sharp, and he wasn’t sure if he remembered the meaning of the word soft anymore. “That language is beneath a Shimada,” he said coldly. Genji started, meeting Hanzo’s eyes head on for the first time. “And you should know better than to believe baseless rumors.”

The next day Genji dyed his hair. He said that he wanted a “change of image,” and Father didn’t think much of it beyond an indulgent chuckle. Hanzo hoped he could stab his heart to death with briars.

So much time could pass without a single incident, and Hanzo would be lulled into a calm that, while not quite contentment, was at least not abject misery. And then he would walk in on Genji changing after sparring, or catch his brother when he jumped down from a tree, or see him kissing his first girlfriend, and the world felt like it was _burning._ At least his love was still warm.

His own hand was poor company. Hanzo was always left sick, washing himself over and over again. Perhaps that was why, when he received a _look_ from a boy after school, Hanzo didn’t hesitate to follow him behind the school.

If the boy had been planning to fight Hanzo, he would have lost. Hanzo repeated that to himself, over and over, as he felt lips hit his own like a fist, teeth hard enough to tear skin, nails that risked ripping clothes. Hanzo didn’t know if he liked the violence or not, but it was easy enough to match.

Genji didn’t wait for Hanzo to pick him up, that day. He walked home on his own, without even a bodyguard, and when Hanzo saw him at dinner he looked tired and unsure.

It was right around the time the cherry blossoms started blooming when Hanzo realized he was a worse person than he’d thought. Genji sent him a message at three in the morning, ordering Hanzo up from his warm futon and into the light chill of spring. He padded groggily through the halls, along the garden path outside until he could open the back gate and let Genji in.

In the darkness, Genji’s green hair looked almost black. It had been mussed, sweat leaving it to stick at odd angles, and at first Hanzo thought Genji had been at a dance. But then Genji looked at him, grateful and exhausted, and _winked._

There were many reasons Hanzo loved his brother. As he watched those slim shoulders retreat into the house, Hanzo tried to list them to himself. Genji could move soundlessly, graceful in a way few people could manage even with their training. Genji loved birds so much he’d never asked for one as a pet, because he couldn’t bear to see them caged. Genji practiced raising one eyebrow in the mirror.

Each reason froze into a thin rime just under his skin. With love so cold, he didn’t find it hard to freeze Genji out.

Father was disappointed, and Genji was bewildered, but it was for the best. Hanzo told himself that every time he avoided family meals, every time he bowed out of rare weekends off. It was for the best. And when Father got sick, it was _necessary._

Family members Hanzo had barely known became a common sight, moving in to take bites from Father’s empire while he was ill. Hanzo fought them off, glad that his brother couldn’t distract him. Because if he had shown any softness, any warmth, any weakness, he would have lost.

He didn’t think to ask Genji if this was best for his brother, as well. Even if Genji wanted something different, he couldn’t have it. He needed to grow up. He needed to recognize that their family was in danger of fracturing into a million pieces, and Hanzo was holding it together by an iron fistful of threads.

Of course, Genji was nothing if not childish. Surely, that must have been the thing that drove him to Hanzo’s room, to Hanzo’s surprised arms. Childishness, because it couldn’t be weakness.

“Please,” Genji begged, whisper-soft as an arrow flying through the air, and twice as deadly. “Please, I know you don’t like th-this anymore, but please. Just for tonight.”

Hesitation made Hanzo’s arms clumsy when they wrapped around Genji. How long had it been, since Hanzo had last hugged Genji? Hugged _anyone?_ His hands rubbed at Genji’s back, but they felt aimless. Useless. Give him a weapon, any day.

Breathing, closer to Hanzo’s ear than it usually got, even on the rare occasions he found someone to fuck, kept him tense and unhappy. “He’s not getting better, is he?” Genji asked.

Shame washed through Hanzo, when it took him a full minute to realize that Genji was talking about their father. “No,” he said. “Not yet, in any case. You know that we have--”

“The best doctors money can buy, yeah.” Hanzo couldn’t see Genji’s eyes, with his chin propped on his shoulder, but he could imagine the way they rolled. Terror gripped the lump of meat that had once been his heart. “But it’s still not a guarantee, is it?”

“No.” Hanzo couldn’t seem to stop thinking it. _No, no, no._ “You have nothing to worry about, however. He is in no imminent danger, and so long as I am heading the business--”

Again, Genji cut him off. “Call it what it is, Hanzo,” he murmured. “We’re yakuza. Might as well be proud of it.”

Hatred welled in him, as sudden as the terror had been. Genji’s words were like well-placed strikes of a beak, pecking its way through the ice coating the ground. Spring in all its harshness. Hanzo wanted it to stop, and he wanted his heart to stop feeling, and if he couldn’t have that then he wanted something that would destroy him.

Fine tremors ran through Genji’s frame, and Hanzo suddenly realized he might already be half destroyed.

Hanzo pressed his lips to the side of Genji’s head, before his brain could catch up. Genji’s hair was damaged and coarse and supremely uncomfortable against his mouth. “We are, at that.”

For a single, crystalline moment, the world hung on the edge of a knife. And then Genji was backing up, uncertainty in his eyes. Those golden, shining eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “I know it will. Thanks, Hanzo.”

Nodding, Hanzo watched his brother leave. He pretended, very very hard, that he hadn’t noticed the slight tremble in Genji’s voice.

Sometimes, he thought that the reason Genji felt the need to seek out so many risks was Hanzo’s fault. Had he been too permissive, when Genji was young? Had he been too unapproachable, later? Had the filth in him infected Genji, and found his brother more likely to give in than Hanzo?

In that moment, he didn’t think it. He _knew_ it, with chilling certainty. He had killed something in his brother, something he didn’t know how to resurrect. If he’d been any less cold the guilt would have choked him.

As it was, the last time they saw their father was a cold and dreary day. Fog had hung so low and thick that it turned seamlessly into a low, steady drizzle. Later, Hanzo would remember it and think it appropriate.

“Look after your brother,” Father whispered into Hanzo’s ear. He sounded worried and hopelessly fond. “He’ll need you.”

“Yes,” Hanzo said. Simple and sweet. And if it wasn’t perfectly honest, well, he was only looking after what his father needed. Clearly, Father hadn’t seen the festering thing in his sons. He didn’t realize that Genji had already fallen prey to it, and would never come back to being the child Hanzo had loved.

Still, Hanzo loved him. Maybe that was why he didn’t argue, when the order came. Because he loved Genji, both the one who had died with childhood and the one who had grown into a man who flitted about like a feather on the wind. How could Hanzo allow someone he loved to follow such a destructive lifestyle?

Maybe, just maybe, Genji agreed to the duel for a similar reason. At least, Hanzo hoped that was why. He hoped, as hard as he had pretended, that Genji didn’t simply hate him. That the disgust in his eyes was imagined. That he had made the right choice.

But then it was done, and blood stained Hanzo’s clothing, and he knew he hadn’t. Hope had fluttered to the ground to lie, lifeless, beside the sparrow’s feather.

Hanzo ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Shimadacest angst which I've been trying to write for forever, but finally managed. Hopefully it'll get me used to writing for OW again after my extended break.
> 
> Comments are love and I'll provide free hugs and chocolate to anyone who needs it. I'd say I'm sorry for writing angst, but no, I'm not. I thrive on suffering. Also, I take fic writing requests on tumblr :3c http://twitchtipthegnawer.tumblr.com/


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